


Things Are Going Swell

by ADeedWithoutaName



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15.14, Fat!Jack, Feeding, Gen, Last Holiday, Stuffing, Weight Gain, fat!Dean, fat!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADeedWithoutaName/pseuds/ADeedWithoutaName
Summary: Mrs. Butters is convinced there's more than one way to keep her boys safe.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 107





	Things Are Going Swell

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (American) Thanksgiving!
> 
> Somebody else probably did this already, and did it better, but ah, well.

"Hey."

Stretched out in one of the recliners in the Dean-cave (or Fortress of Dean-itude, it'd been a couple years and he still wasn't married to a name), Dean cracked an eye.

"So, y'know." Sam had to pause to burp. "I've been thinking."

Dean groaned. "First mistake."

"Hear me out."

"Better hurry then, dude. That...sleepy turkey chemical you were talking about, whatever, it's kicking in."

"Tryptophan."

"Yeah, that one. Fucking love that stuff." He grinned. "I'm a trypto-fan."

It was Sam's turn to groan.

"Like you weren't thinking it." Dean belched. In the early days, when he did that and made no effort to cover his mouth, Sam would get all pissy. Thank god he'd finally gotten used to it. "But seriously. Tell me whatever you - " Another belch. "Cooked up in that giant nerd brain."

Cooked up. Cooking. Made him wonder, even feeling like he'd pop if he breathed too deep, what dinner was gonna be tomorrow. What holiday they'd be celebrating...probably Christmas. It'd sort of been a non-stop stream lately, and when they reached the end of what the calendar had to offer, they just started over. Dean wasn't complaining.

"Don't get mad."

"Why would I…?"

"'S about Mrs. Butters."

Dean groaned again. Partly because of what Sam had just said, partly because of the gurgle that had just rolled through his stomach. It was low, contented as he digested, felt kind of good. He put a hand on his belly, rubbing reassuringly.

"'Less the next words outta your mouth are about how awesome her pumpkin pie is," Dean warned before interrupting himself with yet another burp, "I'm going to sleep."

"You gonna get mad?"

Dean grunted. Normally, the answer might be yes. Right now, though? He wasn't sure he had it in him. Literally. It wasn't completely because he was sleepy and content and all the pleasure centers of his brain were completely overloaded with one of the best meals he'd ever eaten, yet again, although that definitely contributed to it. It was just that anger took up a lot of space and energy, even for somebody as good at it as him, and on top of all the mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce and stuffing and green bean casserole and baked yams, he just didn't have _room._

Sam somehow seemed to read all that in the grunt. Or at least decide he didn't care whether or not Dean got pissed. Maybe he thought he'd have some kind of advantage over him if Dean took a swing, but Dean didn't know who he thought he was kidding. He had to have eaten at least as much as Dean had.

"So, Mrs. Butters." Sam cleared his throat. "D'you maybe think she's...feeding us too much?"

That finally made Dean open both eyes, and squint over at Sam where he was laying in his own recliner. The big and tall one Dean had brought in specifically for him. "Huh?"

"Well, y'know. We've been doing the whole holiday thing for - " A burp. "A while now."

"We kinda got a lot to make up for, Sam," Dean pointed out. Maybe there wasn't room for anger, but there was some for a little belligerence, and he let that leak out into his voice.

"Uh huh, but…" Sam was absentmindedly rolling something back and forth between his fingers. Looked like a button. Must have popped off one of them earlier. God knew there had been enough doing that. "It's a lot of food."

"Yeah."

"Like, a _lot_."

"If you're gonna bitch, nobody's got a gun to your head at the table."

"No, but - " Sam let out a little laugh that turned into a long groan. "Oh, my god, I'm so full."

"Yeah, me too, Sammy. Kinda like to slip into something more comfortable. Y'know, like a food coma."

Sam panted for a couple seconds, then soldiered on. Dean rolled his eyes. "It's good. It's so good. Like, dude, she's even a better cook than you, and your food was the best I'd ever tasted when you started cooking."

Dean scowled. Sam amended, "She's on par."

"Yeah, okay." Dean stretched, groaned in satisfaction as he felt the numerous contents of his stomach settle. "So it's hog heaven. You work out…"

"I'm not even sure when I last went running."

"...and I've got a fast metabolism…"

"You're in your forties, Dean."

"...and we both hunt," Dean finished, not about to let Sam derail him. "We burn it off. No biggie."

"Uh, kinda biggie," Sam countered. "Maybe really biggie. How long ago was our last hunt?"

Dean closed his eyes with a moan, tipping his head back. "Sam, all my blood's in my stomach, don't make me - count."

"You can't remember, can you?" Sam sounded all triumphant about it. If he could manage that, he obviously needed to eat more. Wasn't Thanksgiving if you weren't on the edge of passing out. Like Dean was.

"Been slow," he mumbled.

"How long's it been since you _looked_?"

Dean burped. After a second, he asked, "How long's it been since _you_ looked, smart guy?"

"That's what I'm saying. I haven't. I've either been too busy eating…" Dean heard a little groan. He looked over to see Sam massaging his own belly. "Or too full."

"Mm. Same."

Not really that hard to be too busy eating with Mrs. Butters around. She seemed to have a sixth sense (or an addition to however many senses wood nymphs normally had) for when Dean was hungry, or peckish, or even had a little spare room, and there she was with a brownie or a slice of pie or a bacon sandwich. He'd left his jeans undone for months because he knew he'd spend the day too well-fed for a button or a zipper. Well-fed, sleepy, and happy as a clam, hanging out in the bunker with Sam and Jack and an endless supply of the best food he'd ever eaten.

"And you think it's too much?" Dean asked eventually. He should have just let it go, but apparently, the bee Sam had in his bonnet about this had brought a friend. "What?" He smirked. "Losing your girlish figure over there, Sammy?"

"Yes," Sam said without hesitation. "Aren't you?"

Dean considered. Now that he really thought about it, he didn't think he'd always had those hefty man-boobs he'd soaped up in the shower this morning. He lifted his head some, just a little, and looked at his belly. Well, more of a gut, he guessed. Real nice and full, just the way he liked it. Round, so big his shirt had ridden all the way up to his chest. And his ass was sure filling up a lot of this chair.

Maybe he'd been walking a little funny lately, too. Even more rolling than his legs (they were bandy, he could admit that, he was a secure guy) usually allowed for. Really more of a waddle.

He looked over at Sam. He could count every mole on his belly from here, because his shirt couldn't cover it. It wouldn't have been able to even if he hadn't ripped every button off it somewhere around his sixth plate.

And how long had it been since his face was so round Dean couldn't see his cheekbones? Hell, how long had it been since he had a double chin, going on a triple?

"My clothes aren't getting tight," Dean pointed out.

"I think they're new."

Dean tipped his head to one side, then the other. Yeah, he could see that.

"So maybe the middle-aged spread's hitting a little hard," he said. "I think we deserve to kick back and indulge some - " He burped. " - without worrying about it. Don't you?"

Sam didn't look like he disagreed, but he asked, "What about Jack?"

They turned, in unison, to look at the couch Mrs. Butters had helped Dean put in here several months ago, and the nephilim napping peacefully on it. Or, Dean allowed, nephilim blob. Jack might be getting a little pudgy. What with taking up two and a half out of three cushions, and having needed Sam's, Dean's, and Mrs. Butters' assistance to get up from where he'd fallen asleep at the table and make it in here. He'd been so full he didn't seem to remember he could fly, a long stream of hiccups pouring out of him.

There was a milkshake nearby, in a Big Gulp-sized glass, apparently with a little spell on it to keep it cold and at the perfect consistency. Just waiting for him to wake up. The kid absolutely loved those things, was sucking one down whenever Dean saw him, and he was always so bloated with them his belly poked out of his clothes and practically begged for a rub. You could track him through the bunker by the loud sloshing when he walked. Mrs. Butters practically followed him around with a fresh shake - _Just keeping him topped up,_ she'd say with an indulgent little poke to his stomach.

"He seems happy," Dean decided.

Sam didn't say anything. Just exhaled hard through his nose, the way he did when he was making a bitch face, and burped. Dean didn't bother looking at him.

Turned out he couldn't let it lay, though. He sighed himself, then said, "Okay. Sam. Look." He propped himself up on an elbow with a grunt. God, he was heavy. "I'm the one who does this, all right? Me. I'm the one who doesn't...I don't know, trust people, or things. I mean, remember how I was with Jack? And the kid's a giant marshmallow!" Shaped like one lately, too. And with about the same sugar content. Kind of adorable. "You're the one who gives people chances. So if I'm okay with it, if I think she's cool, don't you think Mrs. Butters is fine? Like, couldn't you just try to enjoy yourself for once?"

Sam's mouth twisted, like he wanted to say something else. But the door opened before he could, a dessert cart like you'd see in a restaurant entering first, then Mrs. Butters pushing it. She'd dug it up out of storage. Apparently, it had gotten a lot of use back in the bunker's heyday, when she'd had more people to cook for. It was getting plenty now, covered in pies and cobblers and crisps on all three levels.

"Hello, dears," she greeted, voice sing-song. "I imagine you've had some time to digest, which means you're ready for dessert."

Dean gave Sam a hard look. _If you screw this up for me, I will shave your head while you sleep._

Sam glared back. _This conversation isn't over._

As far as Dean was concerned, it was. He grinned as Mrs. Butters, beaming herself, presented him with an entire pumpkin pie, with a TV-perfect dollop of whipped cream in the middle. He had half a mind not to bother with the fork she handed him, but knew how little she'd like that.

"Ooh, yes. Come to papa, beautiful."

"Now, Samuel," Mrs. Butters was telling Sam, "I thought you might enjoy something just a little less rich, so for you: mixed berry. Would you like some ice cream to go with it?"

Dean heard Sam quietly agree, and smirked around a mouthful of pie. Yeah. Too much, his (apparently expanding) ass.

Once both of them had a pie, Mrs. Butters moved on to Jack as they ate.

"Jack, dear. Come on now, open your eyes...there's a love. It's time for another milkshake."

Dean turned, seeing the glass sitting on top of Jack's belly, Mrs. Butters holding the straw for him as he obediently bent his head to drink. She ruffled his hair, fond.

"You can go right back to sleep just as soon as you finish this off," she promised, then glanced over her shoulder at Dean and smiled. "Wonderful boy you've raised. He's getting so _big._ "

Dean's mouth was full, so he just nodded in agreement.

When his fork scraped the bottom of the tin, Dean groaned in satisfaction. He tried to shift his position some, but seemed to be too heavy to manage it, which was fine. He was comfortable. He reached up to rub casually at his belly, feeling it gurgle under his hand.

"Feels like I could sleep for a week," he said lazily. "You, Sammy?"

A burp, then a contented little noise from the other recliner. "Yeah."

"Mmm…" Mrs. Butters returned to them. Dean saw her glance back and forth, from one gut to the other, then purse her lips and shake her head. "I'm afraid not, boys. I don't see belly buttons. Someone's not quite full just yet."

Dean lifted his head again. Sure enough, his navel wasn't sticking out (inverted, Sam said), the way it always was when she finally let them stop eating. He dropped his head with a groan.

So maybe he was less well-fed than he was overfed. Whatever. At least the food was good.

"All right," he announced, gesturing, "keep 'em coming."

Mrs. Butters was instantly at his elbow with a massive apple pie, four or five scoops of vanilla ice cream melting into the lattice crust. She put an encouraging hand on his belly, squeezed a little. He grunted, then belched.

"Sorry. 'Scuse me."

"Excellent manners, Dean." She nodded as she handed over the pie, then turned to look expectantly at Sam. "Samuel?"

Sam hesitated. Dean saw him silently cataloguing pizza nights, midnight snacks, birthday cakes, plate after plate while doing research in the library until he was so full he was stuck in the chair and then just wound up passing out there anyway. Burst buttons and busted belts. Inches on his waist and extra chins. And then back to the food.

Dean raised his eyebrows when Sam uneasily looked at him.

_Enjoy yourself._

"Uh," Sam began, looking to Mrs. Butters, "d'you have cherry?"

She smiled from ear to ear.

"Oh, that's my boys." She put out her hands, one on each of their stomachs, and rubbed. "Safe and round."


End file.
